


Blame It On The Ladies Home Journal

by rispacooper



Category: Psych
Genre: Established Relationship, Fluff, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-15
Updated: 2011-02-15
Packaged: 2017-10-15 16:26:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,370
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/162687
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rispacooper/pseuds/rispacooper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Carlton isn't sleeping. It isn't so much that he can't, as it is that Shawn won't let him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blame It On The Ladies Home Journal

Carlton had his eyes closed and his face half-buried in his pillow when he felt motion from the other side of the bed. It was a jerky, uncomfortable sort of motion, like someone rolling over or scooting up to readjust a pillow that probably didn't need readjusting. In fact, Carlton would bet his favorite gun that the pillow was perfectly fine--as it damn well ought to be, it was firm and new, hypoallergenic, and covered in a 450-thread count, Egyptian cotton pillowcase. Nonetheless, Carlton held very still, not even risking opening his eyes. He barely breathed.

He had five hours to catch some shut eye before he had to get up to catch his pre-dawn flight to the law enforcement conference in Boston, and damn it, he needed his sleep.

There was another wave of motion transmitted through the mattress from the other side of the bed to his, this one accompanied by a rush of pushed-out breath, the kind of noise that said "I'm not going to sleep and I'm going to passively-aggressively try to make sure you don't go to sleep either." Carlton had experienced enough of those in his lifetime to know that there was no ignoring them. They would only get louder, and longer, and sadder, until he finally sat up and deman--asked--what in the hell was wrong.

Why people expected other people to be reasonable and in the mood for talking when people were obviously trying to sleep, he would never know. The same way he still didn't see why some things _had_ to be brought up in the middle of the night...or at all. If you needed darkness to say it, then maybe it shouldn't be said.

Knowing that, and, worse, fully aware that passive-aggressive wasn't really Spencer's style, he kept his eyes shut anyway. Spencer had invited himself over, had eaten dinner and sat on the couch with his feet up while Carlton had packed, and hadn't said a single thing of any importance, hadn't even talked about Carlton being out of town for a week--unless Spencer considered Anthony Hopkins versus Brian Cox as the better Hannibal Lector to be some sort of goodbye, which Spencer possibly did.

Shawn never slept regularly that Carlton had seen, sometimes nodding off for twelve hours at a time, other times getting maybe three hours a night, and for that very reason, they had reached an arrangement for whenever Shawn showed up at his place, and by arrangement, he meant on pain of maiming and/or possible shootings that if Shawn wanted to stay up, he had to do it in the living room. Quietly.

Though...Carlton paused to reflect...Spencer had already been quiet for most of the night. Well, in his way. He had chewed his food, watched his movie, and gotten up to slip into bed when it had been obvious that Carlton had been getting ready for bed too. He hadn't joked about any cases, hadn't jumped Carlton with any of his usual...enthusiasm...hadn't jumped him at all, actually, which made his visit here all the more unusual.

Not that they always _slept together_ slept together when Spencer came over, but Shawn generally didn't sleep over on the nights when they didn't. Or at least he never had, and so Carlton had never asked. He clearly wasn't in the mood to sleep now, even if he'd put on a pair of Carlton's pj bottoms and pulled a small stuffed monkey from somewhere and cuddled it as Carlton had switched off the lights.

Switching off the lights always left his bedroom is complete darkness. His digital alarm clock was turned to the side, pale green lettering just visible if he squinted, illuminating the vaguest hint of his door.

Carlton frowned into the pillow, his heart thumping a little faster.

Despite the fact that he _knew_ he hadn't in any way indicated that he was anything other than fast asleep, knew it for a goddamn fact, Shawn twisted again, flopping onto his back, and then spoke.

"You know, if you're faking sleep, it's better to keep your breathing slow and regular, not stop completely," he remarked in what could only be described as a casual whisper. Whispers should not be casual. It was like shouting nonchalantly, something else Spencer did as easily as he read the truth. At least in the dark they were on almost the same footing.

On the heels of that thought however, Carlton knew that any more time in this relationship, without sleep, and he was going to turn into Shawn. Or someone as crazy as Shawn. He could feel it. He'd almost bought a flannel shirt the other day. There were _three_ spiky, tropical fruits currently in his refrigerator. The end was near.

"Shut up, Spencer," he tried anyway, cracking one eye to look at the time. "I'm trying to sleep." What had Guster said once? If you could, try to cut Shawn off before he got carried away, otherwise there was nothing else to do but ride it out. If Carlton didn't cut this off now, it could be like the one of the first nights, when he'd ended up awake until four a.m. playing "Twenty Questions" and then a round of "Truth or Dare" that had culminated in a long, dirty, wet blow job that had at least knocked Shawn out enough for Carlton to get some sleep too.

And, no, "I was up late playing slumber party games with my sort of-boyfriend and that's why I forgot to come in early and finish my reports" did not work on the Chief. It was like trying to explain to Spencer why "Light As a Feather" didn't work with two people. Anyway, Shawn had mostly just seemed to enjoy sticking his fingers in inappropriate places.

Come to think of it, that game had ended in sex too. Repeatedly. It was enough to make Carlton sigh, not entirely unhappily, though he was way too tired for games. Shawn should learn how to initiate sex like a normal person. Not that a normal person had ever shown that much interest in Carlton for this long. He was beginning to suspect that normal wasn't all it was made out to be.

"Duh," Shawn responded to Carlton's last statement, and let out another breath. Carlton waited. He still wasn't moving, but he looked over at the clock again.

"You know I'm leaving in...less than five hours."

"Then you should be sleeping, Lassi." Spencer liked to say a lot of things in that smartass, mock-reasonable tone. Carlton considered rising to the bait anyway, clenching his jaw as his face got warm. Five hours, he reminded himself, and closed his eyes.

"You _are_ going to be gone for a week," Shawn went on, and Carlton reopened his eyes. "You'll probably be busy the whole time." Shawn was sighing so much that it was amazing he had any air left to speak. "A whole week."

Carlton bit his lip for half a second, and then rolled over onto his back.

"All right, what? Just say it, Spencer. Just say whatever it is on your lunatic mind, and then we can both get some sleep."

Shawn was lying on his back too, Carlton could just make out the outline of his body, the fluttering shadows as he moved his hands. Carlton was breathing hard, harder than he should have been for a declaration like that, but Shawn had been strange for hours now, and clearly, whatever was bothering him had to be dealt with.

Next to him, Shawn twitched.

"Never mind, Lassiface," he said brightly, "You need your sleep if you want to catch your flight."

Carlton was really, really tired. He _almost_ bought it. Except there was no such thing as a calm and considerate Spencer. When Spencer was calm, he was never considerate, and when Spencer was considerate, he was never calm. _Never_ at the same time. In fact, Spencer considerate was more like finding your house filled with balloons on your birthday or a new, yet open and sampled, jar of peanut butter appearing in your pantry along with a note about the obscene things it was possible to do with common condiments.

Carlton thought about it, then scowled.

"Are you breaking up with me?" he asked the dark and instantly felt like an idiot. He hadn't been going to ask that question. He'd _never_ asked that question, even when he should have, even when it had been painfully obvious to everyone else that yes, he had been or was about to be dumped. It wasn't as though he'd expected this to be anything, he told himself, as memories spinned before his eyes like he was having some sort of near-death experience. This was _Spencer_ after all, who couldn't tell the truth, who _wouldn't_ tell the truth, just to be difficult. Carlton still wasn't even sure how it had started, how it had gotten this far, Spencer lying next to him in the darkness, having a Cosmo moment. Asking about their relationship was like asking for it to end, but he wasn't going to wait around for Spencer to get tired of him, or look around and realize that he was fucking Carlton Lassiter and run.

"Never mind." Carlton rolled back onto his side, away from Shawn, and stared hard at his alarm clock.

The bed transmitted motion again, Shawn sitting up, leaning against the headboard. Carlton stayed where he was. He put one hand on the pillow and dug in his fingers.

He hadn't done anything wrong, not that he knew of. But then he never knew what he'd done wrong. Not once, not until his exes had spelled it out for him in detail. Not being there. Being there too much. Taking his work too seriously. Not listening. Obsessing. Loving guns too much. Loving the law too much. Not seeing what was right in front of his face.

"Well of course I can't see what's in front of my face!" Carlton snapped. "It's dark in here!"

"Lassi?" Shawn seemed startled, or worried, "You okay over there? Did the Lassibot finally fry his circuits?" Carlton inhaled, long and slow.

"It's nothing. I'm just tired." And so help him, if that made Spencer sigh again, he was going to...

Spencer sighed.

"What?" Carlton slammed his hand down into the pillow and pushed himself part of the way up. "What is it, Spencer?" His brain was racing, trying to put together clues. Shawn's hair had been the same artful mess. His clothes had been deliberately wrinkled as always. He had looked fine and disgustingly healthy for someone who barely worked out. He'd looked cute and off-handedly sexy and young and playful. There had been nothing obviously different about him for Carlton to notice except for his subdued attitude.

Shawn hadn't had a case today. All he had done was lurk around the station, sitting on Carlton's desk and swishing his hands through Carlton's hair for no apparent reason, until Guster had finally reminded him that he had somewhere to be, and that had been...dinner with his parents.

Carlton shuddered. Thinking about Madeline still made him nervous. Parents could be stressful--Lord knew his mother was--but they weren't any reason for Shawn to be reacting like this, were they? No, the fact was that Spencer was probably mad at Carlton about something.

Damn it. He had a conference to go to in...four and half hours. If Spencer was going to end it...this...the thing between them, then he ought to just rip off the goddamn Band-aid. It was fine, Carlton could handle it. He'd been through worse.

But he held still, and didn't turn to face Shawn as he ground out the words.

"Look, if you're mad at me, then just say it. It isn't like I'm forcing you to be here."

Silence, from Spencer, was even more disturbing than calm. Carlton swallowed the lump in his throat, and then finally heard a faint response.

"Psh..." He imagined a nose wrinkle, a flapped hand. "Like you can force me to do anything, Lassipants. "Well," Shawn hummed, "you did make me try brussel sprouts by tricking me with cheese sauce."

"Spencer..." Carlton sighed this time. "Don't drag it out." He put a hand to his head and scrubbed it through his hair.

"Dude. How many times have people dumped you?" Shawn shifted and the nagging, suspicious part of Carlton that still thought of Spencer as the popular kid whispered that he was suppressing a laugh.

Of course, Carlton had been to Spencer's high school reunion, he knew the truth--Spencer was a dork--and what's more he'd witnessed first hand Spencer's awkward romantic gestures--things that were entirely different from Spencer's blatant groping and innuendo and occasional ear flicking. Spencer trying to be romantic was Spencer tripping over his words and losing track of his own pop culture references and a hell of a lot of staring without any speaking at all. It had taken Carlton far too long to understand what exactly Spencer had been asking him with his flat jokes and creepy stares.

Which reminded him, it had been awhile since they'd eaten at Del Taco. They should go again when he got back. Whenever he thought of all the past dating experiences that made him cringe, Carlton could always remember Shawn "casually" offering to go with him to Del Taco for lunch and smile.

He smiled a little, but it was dark, and safe; Spencer couldn't see him.

"Really? Cuz there was a whole lot of bitter Carlton in that question," Shawn was still talking and Carlton tried to focus on the present, where he was possibly having his heart broken by the same person who had once shoved his hands in his pockets and sidled up to Carlton to stutter something about tacos. "Are you upset? Does Lassi need to hug it out?"

Carlton looked over, and tried, too late, to move. Shawn scooted down and over at the same time and Carlton found himself surrounded by Spencer limbs. One pj-covered leg was even on top of the blankets, pinning him. Carlton froze and Shawn's mouth was suddenly against the back of his neck, his breath warm and wet, his lips soft and open. His stubble was scratchy, but in a nice way, like a cat's tongue, not that Carlton had ever cared for cats.

It was hot, Carlton thought immediately, but before he could say anything, Shawn mumbled something. This close, without the distractions of sex, Carlton could feel the rumble at his back.

"Now is it all better?" Spencer was being his usual obnoxious self, even if he had trapped Carlton in some kind of cuddly half-Nelson. He made a few noises and then settled down.

If Carlton put his head on his pillow they would officially be spooning.

He waited as long as his arm could keep him propped up and then eased himself down in an attempt at dignity, as though he wasn't encircled and ensnared in wily Spencer tentacles. Shawn made another noise, a pleased noise, the sort of sound he made for Dole and Dead Zone reruns--"Dude, he's _psychic_ "--and then snuffled, _snuffled_ into Carlton's skin.

There were a few dozen smartass comments hovering on Carlton's tongue--that he wasn't a replacement for a stuffed monkey, that Shawn was crazy--but it was only after he listened to Shawn's breathing get slow that he realized he hadn't spoken any of them out loud. Maybe it was the novelty of being snuggled. His mother had never had the time. Most of his exes hadn't been into cuddling, and Carlton could hardly blame them for that when he could be called out of bed at any moment. He hadn't wanted to disturb them more than he'd had to anyway. It wasn't like he'd missed it.

Still, this was...different...strange...for Spencer who generally slept fitfully when he did sleep...but...it wasn't completely uncomfortable. It was even almost nice. Carlton sank further into the pillow and tried to get the worry to leave his body. Everything was so very warm, and soft, and peaceful.

"Lassi?" Shawn whispered and Carlton opened his eyes to look--again--at the clock. "Are you going to miss me while you're in Boston listening to boring lectures on forensics and talking shop with other stuffy detectives with bad hair and itchy trigger fingers?"

"No," Carlton said instantly, and screwed his eyes shut. His pulse was pounding. Shawn didn't budge, but Carlton would swear he stopped breathing.

"The spirits tell me you're lying," Shawn picked up where he'd left off a moment later, after too long of a pause, a frightening, alarming, Spencer-isn't-breathing pause, and Carlton cursed whatever women's magazine Spencer had apparently read in some doctor's office while waiting for Guster to finish his rounds. Maybe not Cosmo, maybe the Ladies Home Journal, or God help him, Glamour. Lucinda had been fond of Glamour.

"But if by that you meant am I going to miss you you when I'm in Boston attending fascinating lectures and talking shop with other dedicated men and women in law enforcement, then..." Carlton cleared his throat. "Then yes, I will. God knows why, you eat all my peanut butter. Now go to sleep." He shivered at the short hum into his skin and wondered if he was imagining the sudden easing of tension in the body against his.

"Lassi," Shawn started again, but this time Carlton wasn't surprised, or at least, not anymore than he was by this whole conversation and the octopus-like way Spencer had trapped him.

"What?" He _barely_ refrained from snapping.

"Then were you really going to leave for a week and deny me access to your peanut butter?"

He was so tired that for a moment, he heard something else and had to backtrack to realize that, yes, Spencer had _really_ been talking about peanut butter.

"If by peanut butter, you mean my house, we both know that you break in whenever you want." A fact that was honestly infuriating. Carlton shifted and grumbled into the pillow, 450-thread count and all. Maybe if he weren't so tired, he would be making more sense. Of course, Spencer understood him anyway. The lunatic. "There's an extra key..."

"In that cute little ceramic frog outside," Shawn finished for him. He seemed...amused...by something. "Not very secure for a cop."

"...That you can use if you need to," Carlton snarled quietly, saying what he'd been going to say anyway, and made a point of getting comfortable so he could get. some. sleep.

A hundred nightmarish catastrophes flashed through his mind the second he tried. He was talking even before his brain could catch up.

"But no clowns. Or paintball games. Or interventions. Or Elvis impersonators. Or ponies. Or strippers. Or Tupperware parties. Or bake sales. Or Royal Rumbles in my yard. Or..."

"You know, Lassi, I'm starting to suspect that you don't trust me," Shawn sniffed, just under his ear. Carlton made a rude noise. "I was going to call you from this very bed for naughty and yet nice phone sex, but now..."

"Oh shut up, Spencer." Great. Now he was picturing Shawn naked on his bed, in the full light of day, one hand on his phone and the other on his cock. Tired or not, Carlton was burning up. His pulse was pounding. Thankfully, Spencer actually shut up, for a minute, but Carlton would take it. He knew firsthand that Shawn was fully capable of continuing a narration better than anything out of Penthouse Forum, at the top of his lungs if he felt like it.

He wondered if Shawn really had been going to call him for phone sex. That was something else he'd never had the opportunity to try. What was he supposed to say? Just describe what he wanted _out loud_? That would be hot...and potentially embarrassing. That had to be the kind of thing you did with the lights out, at least the first time.

It was getting warmer between them. Carlton looked around a little desperately, at the time, tried not to calculate if he had time to say goodbye properly in the morning, how quick a quickie could be, and then Shawn breathed out against his neck.

"Then why were you going to leave without seeing me?"

Carlton thought back to opening his door and seeing Shawn on the other side, Shawn's gaze sweeping over him in that darting way before Shawn had slid slowly past him and inside. No greeting, no joke, no kiss, no pounce and grab against the wall.

"You...you had plans," he pointed out, though his chest felt too small. Suddenly, he wasn't aroused any more. "How are Henry and...Madeline? Where did you go for dinner?"

"Outback. I didn't realize Australians were so into giant onions, I thought they were all about big knives and blond women reporters from New York."

"Spencer, I really don't have time for shenanigans."

"Not Shenanigans, Lassi, it was the Outback Steakhouse, I told you."

"Shawn."

There was another pause, and then movement, like a shrug.

"Can we _not_ talk about my parents while in bed? I know you're kinky, Lassi, but that is beyond the pale." Carlton was pretty sure Spencer didn't know what "beyond the pale" meant, but he bit down, hard, and counted to ten. Disasters though most of his relationships had been, they had at least taught him when to shut up.

He tried to imagine something happier, like Spencer, naked and tied to his bed. After a minute of that--maybe adding a gag--he could almost smile again.

"You'll fall asleep easier if you stop picturing me in pornorific poses," Shawn commented, the snuffled and shuffled into him when Carlton jerked back into a tense position, fully awake. "The thing is..." Shawn went on. "The thing is..."

"You might as well spit it out, Spencer. We're both awake... _now_...and things said in the dark...sometimes they need to be said in the dark. Seriously, you aren't breaking up with me, are you? Or is all this going to turn out to be about pineapple or Captain Lou Albano or jumping on a giant keyboard to play 'Chopsticks' or something equally inane? Because if it is any of those last things, I'm going to go to sleep right now and you can text me tomorrow with your insanity."

"Lassi, you can't text message breakup!" Shawn chided, just to set Carlton on edge.

"Spencer...now or never."

"Boston's a fun town, you might like it. I worked there as a bartender on three separate occasions. It's full of big, manly Irish cops," Spencer rushed it all out and it wasn't Carlton imagination that Shawn's body was thrumming with tension. "Sometimes you do that. You go somewhere and you think, this place is nice. I should totally buy a condo and get a gym membership. Maybe rent a movie."

"You want to move to Boston?" His heart rate kicked up as Shawn's mouth moved away from him.

"No." There was motion, a frustrated hand gesture, a blur of air by Carlton's ear. "But sometimes people just...leave...and there's nothing you can do about it, even if you want them to stay."

Carlton grabbed a fistful of Egyptian Cotton. Shawn preferred a high thread count, but this had been the best Carlton could afford. Maybe it wasn't good enough. Or maybe he should never had risked so much with someone like Spencer.

"You want to leave?" he whispered and stared at the clock. What kind of middle of the night conversation was this?

"Lassi Lonelyhearts! Dude! I am not dumping you. What kind of people have you been dating that would break up in the middle of the night? That's so for the morning after. What jerks! No wonder you've been putting up with m...I mean...no wonder you're so grateful to have me around to sex you up on a regular basis."

"Yeah, the sleepless nights were a bonus," Carlton sneered, but quietly. Shawn's mouth skipped back across his skin. Spencer seemed thoughtful, not that Carlton actually thought he was.

"You sound like Gus."

"I wonder why." Carlton couldn't remember any other person he'd dated--or married--taking this much sarcasm, and so often. Spencer didn't seem to notice it or find it strange. He hummed again, then inched his leg farther over Carlton. It really was hot, Shawn had him wrapped up in all the blankets and his body. However, blind though Carlton was at the moment, that position didn't indicate any inclination toward movement on Shawn's part. If anything, Shawn was holding _Carlton_ down to keep _him_ from moving.

Spencer's body did tend to talk for him, as though his mouth didn't talk enough. After innocently accepting that invitation to grab a burrito, Carlton had found himself not half an hour later in a Del Taco bathroom with his shirt open and his pants down, his hands gripping porcelain as that mouth and that body had done unspeakably sexy things to _his_ mouth and body.

When pressed, Carlton had only told O'Hara their first date had been at a Mexican restaurant, but he had been blushing. The fluorescent lights in that bathroom had hidden nothing, and he wasn't sure who had been more naked when it had been over. Spencer had been gasping and soft and clingy, too distracted and weak to stand on his own.

But if this wasn't about Shawn leaving--which it very well still could be, Carlton wasn't entirely sure--then...

Carlton scowled.

"Is this about Mad...your mother?

"Lass! I will ask you to restrain your dirty impulses to mention my parents while you are spooning me! Or...ever, actually."

" _You_ are spooning _me_." He was too used to Shawn's insanity. Although, he had still been sucked into another game of "Twenty Questions". Damn it. "And this is about your parents, isn't it?"

"No," Shawn insisted stubbornly. "This is about...Bloomin' Onions...and Boston lager..."

Carlton snorted as Shawn trailed off, losing track of his own joke, and then rolled over in one quick move, shoving Shawn off him. He could understand things too, even in the dark.

"Ow! Hey! I had a good snuggle cocoon going!"

"Shawn." Sometimes, when Carlton spoke just like that, Shawn went still and listened. Never for very long, but he listened. It made Carlton's heart thump in a vaguely romantic way that was ridiculous and he knew it. It could only be love or a coronary episode, and considering Spencer, a heart attack would have been less frightening. But Carlton hadn't stopped himself, not when he could make Shawn Spencer go _still_. Not when Shawn Spencer went still for _him_ , and had from that first moment in a brightly-lit bathroom, something wary and confused in Shawn's face for him to see.

This time Carlton let himself smirk at the memory.

"You might be your father, but trust me, I am _not_ your mother." No psychobabble. Not ever. "Now shut up," he added over the stream of howls and protests about how Shawn was nothing like Henry. It was a shame Carlton's glare was wasted in the dark.

"Well of course you're not my mother," Shawn huffed at last, what had to be at least five minutes later, winding down, "You could never pull off yellow."

Carlton snarled and reached out. He got a handful of bare skin and yanked until Shawn was plastered to him, one leg draped right back over him.

"I will miss you and I am coming back..." he enunciated carefully through clenched teeth in the vague direction of where he thought Shawn's face was, "...you crazy nutbar freak weirdo. I will be surrounded by professionals and I will--possibly--miss your antics anyway. I might even miss Guster. I am considering bringing you back stupid, overpriced, touristy souvenir crap provided you two manage to not get yourselves killed or injured while I am gone. _Now_ can I sleep?"

"Lassi..." Shawn was breathing hard against his cheek. His voice was awestruck and dirty and innocent all at once. The innocence Carlton didn't waste time trying to believe. "What's keeping you from sleeping?"

Carlton growled a phrase his mother would have slapped him to hear and twisted back around away from Shawn. He yanked at the covers, pulled at the sheets, and kicked to free his feet before shoving himself onto his side in a tense, not even remotely comfortable position. The _second_ he was still, Shawn was around him again, curled up against his back. His hold wasn't so tight this time. Carlton twitched, but didn't move away.

"Lassi," Shawn spoke into his ear.

"Don't make me shoot you," Carlton pleaded. Shawn made that snuffling sound again, under his ear, then into it, something about peanut butter not being a house before he opened his mouth and tasted Carlton's skin. He licked slowly around his ear, then stopped. Carlton shivered. Shawn knew how sensitive his ears were.

"Lassi," Shawn started again. He seemed confused. "Do you totally love me?"

"Duh." Carlton snorted again. Finally. So that was what this had been about. Typical that Spencer would blow him in public, try to get Carlton to fuck him three or four times everyday just to see him blush, would announce to the world that they were dating with a cookie bouquet for everyone at the station, but he couldn't manage one adult conversation. In fact, they would have already said in any of his other relationships...not that any of those had lasted, but he shook that thought off.

"Yes." He made it clear because Spencer was an idiot after all. "Can't you see what's right in front of you?" he mocked since there were appearances to keep up, and Spencer went quiet and motionless next to him. "If I didn't, I would have shot you. Now I am going to sleep. I suggest you do the same, or I won't be in the mood for a quickie before I leave."

"Yes, Lassi," Shawn murmured after a minute, a squeak in his voice, probably amusement, and Carlton wondered what embarrassing things would be waiting for him in his hotel room. He should make sure to hide his credit cards, possibly warn Guster if he remembered.

For now, Shawn just wriggled, sighed, and settled down against him. Carlton stared at the clock, minutes ticking by, waiting. But Shawn didn't move, and Carlton didn't hear anymore "Lassi"s. He dared to shut his eyes after ten minutes, and took a deep breath to match Spencer's slow, even respiration. Shawn's arm wrapped around him got heavier. Shawn was still, finally, and the room remained quiet and dark. Carlton could get some sleep at last. No more conversation, no more questions about phone sex and Boston and parents and peanut butter. He still didn't see what peanut butter had to do with it.

Carlton opened his eyes. Wait a second...

"Shawn..." he asked hesitantly. He shouldn't ask. "Never mind," he went on a moment later, then blinked once or twice. He _knew_. Of course he knew, that was what tonight had been about for Spencer. It had to be. But...he hadn't actually... "Spencer..." he tried again, "...do _you_...love _me_?"

Shawn made a snoring, snuffling noise and buried his face in Carlton's neck, fast asleep. Carlton's heart pounded, thumped awkwardly at the sound, at the weight holding him down. His muscles were thrumming. He couldn't fall asleep if his life depended on it.

Carlton looked at the clock. Four hours, damn it.

He sighed.

 

The End

 

(Except for the other nights, where Shawn wakes Lassi up with the classic, "Lassi, if I died, would you find another loveable and gorgeous psychic to love?" and the whole "Lassi, do you think Simon Baker is prettier than me, as far as fake psychics go?" conversations that you know he's going to have. And Lassi *so* is a replacement for a stuffed monkey. Shawn is doing it right.)


End file.
